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Full text of "The tent on the beach, and dramatic lyrics"

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Armand J. Courtemanche 


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So passed the Quakers through Boston town (page 102) 












THE simple device which Mr. Whittier em- 
ployed for framing some of his most char- 
acteristic pictures in verse of life and nature is in 
itself a delightful sketch of human companionship. 
This poetical picnic is but slightly removed from 
actual fact, and more than one poem of Mr. Whit- 
tier's is reminiscent of gatherings in the summer 
at Hampton or Salisbury Beach. The group of 
friends, the great background of ocean and stretches 
of gray sand at once suggest tableaux vivants, and 
there is the added charm, as of a play within a play, 
when we have the figures in the scene themselves 
projecting new scenes and dramatic incidents upon 
the screen. The whole conception is so pictorial 
that it is most natural for two artists, working to- 
gether, to reflect some of these images in the mirror 
of their art, and Mr. and Mrs. Woodbury have 
thus added their grace to the poet's invention. 

The poems which have been added are such as 
might easily have been told had the poet and his 
friends pitched their tent again, or been a little 
more reluctant to strike it at the close of their 



























So passed the Quakers through Boston town 

(page 102) . . . . Frontispiece 

Pitched their white tent where sea-winds blew 4 

" Oho ! " she muttered, " ye 're brave today ! " 14 
Deepest of all mysteries, 

And the saddest, silence is 24 
" Lead her out of this evil shadow, 

Out of these fancies wild" . . 38 

In the shadow of the ash .... 42 

Now the church was wellnigh done . 50 

The ghost of what was once a ship . . 56 

Thev burned the wreck of the Palatine . 62 

"Let God do His work, we will see to ours" 68 

"I go, as to the slaughter led" ... 80 

Into the forest they held their way . 106 


It can scarcely be necessary to name as the two 
companions whom I reckoned with myself in this 
poetical picnic, Fields the lettered magnate, and 
Taylor the free cosmopolite. The long line of 
sandy beach which defines almost the whole of the 
New Hampshire sea-coast is especially marked near 
its southern extremity by the salt-meadows of 
Hampton. The Hampton River winds through 
these meadows, and the reader may, if he choose, 
imagine my tent pitched near its mouth, where 
also was the scene of the Wreck of River mouth* 
The green bluff to the northward is Great Boar's 
Head; southward is the Merrimac, with New- 
buryport lifting its steeples above brown roofs and 
green trees on its banks. [Mr. Whittier origi- 
nally designed following the Decameron method 
and feigning that each person read his own poem, 
but abandoned it as too hackneyed.] 


I WOULD not sin, in this half-playful strain, — 
Too light perhaps for serious years, though 
Of the enforced leisure of slow pain, — 

Against the pure ideal which has drawn 
My feet to follow its far-shining gleam. 
A simple plot is mine.: legends and runes 
Of credulous days, old fancies that have lain 
Silent from boyhood taking voice again, 
Warmed into life once more, even as the tunes 
That, frozen in the fabled hunting-horn, 
Thawed into sound : — a winter fireside dream 
Of dawns and sunsets by the summer sea, 
Whose sands are traversed by a silent throng 
Of voyagers from that vaster mystery 
Of which it is an emblem; — and the dear 
Memory of one who might have tuned my song 
To sweeter music by her delicate ear. 

When heats as of a tropic clime 

Burned all our inland valleys through, 

Three friends, the guests of summer time, 

Pitched their white tent where sea-winds blew. 


Behind them, marshes, seamed and crossed 
With narrow creeks, and flower-embossed, 
Stretched to the dark oak wood, whose leafy arms 
Screened from the stormy East the pleasant inland 

At full of tide their bolder shore 

Of sun-bleached sand the waters beat ; 
At ebb, a smooth and glistening floor 

They touched with light, receding feet. 
Northward a green bluff broke the chain 
Of sand-hills ; southward stretched a plain 
Of salt grass, with a river winding down, 
Sail-whitened, and beyond the steeples of the 
town, — 

Whence sometimes, when the wind was light 

And dull the thunder of the beach, 
They heard the bells of morn and night 
Swing, miles away, their silver speech. 
Above low scarp and turf-grown wall 
They saw the fort-flag rise and fall ; 
And, the first star to signal twilight's hour, 
The lamp-fire glimmer down from the tall light- 
house tower. 

They rested there, escaped awhile 
From cares that wear the life away, 

Pitched their tent where sea-winds blew 


To eat the lotus of the Nile 

And drink the poppies of Cathay, — 
To fling their loads of custom down, 
Like drift-weed, on the sand-slopes brown, 
And in the sea-waves drown the restless pack 
Of duties, claims, and needs that barked upon their 

One, with his beard scarce silvered, bore 

A ready credence in his looks, 
A lettered magnate, lording o'er 

An ever-widening realm of books. 
In him brain-currents, near and far, 
Converged as in a Leyden jar ; 
The old, dead authors thronged him round about, 
And Elzevir's gray ghosts from leathern graves 
looked out. 

He knew each living pundit well, 

Could weigh the gifts of him or her, 
And well the market value tell 

Of poet and philosopher. 
But if he lost, the scenes behind, 
Somewhat of reverence vague and blind, 
Finding the actors human at the best, 
No readier lips than his the good he saw con- 


His boyhood fancies not outgrown, 

He loved himself the singer's art ; 
Tenderly, gently, by his own 

He knew and judged an author's heart. 
No Rhadamanthine brow of doom 
Bowed the dazed pedant from his room ; 
And bards, whose name is legion, if denied, 
Bore off alike intact their verses and their pride. 

Pleasant it was to roam about 

The lettered world as he had done, 
And see the lords of song without 

Their singing robes and garlands on. 
With Wordsworth paddle Rydal mere, 
Taste rugged Elliott's home-brewed beer, 
And with the ears of Rogers, at fourscore, 
Hear Garrick's buskined tread and Walpole's wit 
once more. 

And one there was, a dreamer born, 

Who, with a mission to fulfil, 
Had left the Muses' haunts to turn 

The crank of an opinion-mill, 
Making his rustic reed of song 
A weapon in the war with wrong, 
Yoking his fancy to the breaking-plough 
That beam-deep turned the soil for truth to spring 
and grow. 


Too quiet seemed the man to ride 

The winged Hippogriff Reform ; 
Was his a voice from side to side 

To pierce the tumult of the storm ? 
A silent, shy, peace-loving man, 
He seemed no fiery partisan 
To hold his way against the public frown, 
The ban of Church and State, the fierce mob's 
hounding down. 

For while he wrought with strenuous will 

The work his hands had found to do, 
He heard the fitful music still 

Of winds that out of dream-land blew. 
The din about him could not drown 
What the strange voices whispered down ; 
Along his task-field weird processions swept, 
The visionary pomp of stately phantoms stepped. 

The common air was thick with dreams, — 

He told them to the toiling crowd ; 
Such music as the woods and streams 

Sang in his ear he sang aloud ; 
In still, shut bays, on windy capes, 
He heard the call of beckoning shapes, 
And, as the gray old shadows prompted him, 
To homely moulds of rhyme he shaped their legends 


He rested now his weary hands, 

And lightly moralized and laughed, 
As, tracing on the shifting sands 
A burlesque of his paper-craft, 
He saw the careless waves o'errun 
His words, as time before had done, 
Each day's tide-water washing clean away, 
Like letters from the sand, the work of yesterday. 

And one, whose Arab face was tanned 

By tropic sun and boreal frost, 
So travelled there was scarce a land 

Or people left him to exhaust, 
In idling mood had from him hurled 
The poor squeezed orange of the world, 
And in the tent-shade, sat beneath a palm, 
Smoked, cross - legged like a Turk, in Oriental 

The very waves that washed the sand 

Below him, he had seen before 
Whitening the Scandinavian strand 

And sultry Mauritanian shore. 
From ice-rimmed isles, from summer seas 
Palm-fringed, they bore him messages ; 
He heard the plaintive Nubian songs again, 
And mule-bells tinkling down the mountain-paths 
of Spain. 


His memory round the ransacked earth 

On Puck's long girdle slid at ease ; 
And, instant, to the valley's girth 

Of mountains, spice isles of the seas, 
Faith flowered in minster stones, Art's guess 
At truth and beauty, found access ; 
Yet loved the while, that free cosmopolite, 
Old friends, old ways, and kept his boyhood's 
dreams in sight. 

Untouched as yet by wealth and pride, 

That virgin innocence of beach : 
No shingly monster, hundred-eyed, 

Stared its gray sand-birds out of reach ; 
Unhoused, save where, at intervals, 
The white tents showed their canvas walls, 
Where brief sojourners, in the cool, soft air, 
Forgot their inland heats, hard toil, and year-long 

Sometimes along the wheel-deep sand 
A one-horse wagon slowly crawled, 
Deep laden with a youthful band, 

Whose look some homestead old recalled ; 
Brother perchance, and sisters twain, 
And one whose blue eyes told, more plain 
Than the free language of her rosy lip, 
Of the still dearer claim of love's relationship. 


With cheeks of russet-orchard tint, 

The light laugh of their native rills, 
The perfume of their garden's mint, 
The breezy freedom of the hills, 
They bore, in unrestrained delight, 
The motto of the Garter's knight, 
Careless as if from every gazing thing 
Hid by their innocence, as Gyges by his ring. 

The clanging sea-fowl came and went, 

The hunter's gun in the marshes rang ; 
At nightfall from a neighboring tent 

A flute-voiced woman sweetly sang. 
Loose-haired, barefooted, hand-in-hand, 
Young girls went tripping down the sand ; 
And youths and maidens, sitting in the moon, 
Dreamed o'er the old fond dream from which we 
wake too soon. 

At times their fishing-lines they plied, 

With an old Triton at the oap, 
Salt as the sea-wind, tough and dried 

As a lean cusk from Labrador. 
Strange tales he told of wreck and storm, — 
Had seen the sea-snake's awful form, 
And heard the ghosts on Haley's Isle complain, 
Speak him off shore, and beg a passage to old 
Spain ! 


And there, on breezy morns, they saw 
The fishing-schooners outward run, 
Their low-bent sails in tack and flaw 

Turned white or dark to shade and sun. 
Sometimes, in calms of closing day, 
They watched the spectral mirage play, 
Saw low, far islands looming tall and nigh, 
And ships, with upturned keels, sail like a sea the 

Sometimes a cloud, with thunder black, 

Stooped low upon the darkening main, 
Piercing the waves along its track 
With the slant javelins of rain. 
And when west-wind and sunshine warm 
Chased out to sea its wrecks of storm, 
They saw the prismy hues in thin spray showers 
Where the green buds of waves burst into white 
froth flowers. 

And when along the line of shore 

The mist crept upward chill and damp, 
Stretched, careless, on their sandy floor 

Beneath the flaring lantern lamp, 
They talked of all things old and new, 
Read, slept, and dreamed as idlers do ; 
And in the unquestioned freedom of the tent, 
Body and o'er-taxed mind to healthful ease unbent. 


Once, when the sunset splendors died, 
And, trampling up the sloping sand, 
In lines outreaching far and wide, 

The white-maned billows swept to land, 
Dim seen across the gathering shade, 
A vast and ghostly cavalcade, 
They sat around their lighted kerosene, 
Hearing the deep bass roar their every pause be- 

Then, urged thereto, the Editor 

Within his full portfolio dipped, 
Feigning excuse while searching for 

(With secret pride) his manuscript. 
His pale face flushed from eye to beard, 
With nervous cough his throat he cleared, 
And, in a voice so tremulous it betrayed 
The anxious fondness of an author's heart, he read : 


Rivermouth Rocks are fair to see, 
By dawn or sunset shone across, 

When the ebb of the sea has left them free 
To dry their fringes of gold-green moss : 

For there the river comes winding down, 

From salt sea-meadows and uplands brown, 


And waves on the outer rocks afoam 
Shout to its waters, "Welcome home ! " 

And fair are the sunny isles in view 

East of the grisly Head of the Boar, 
And Agamenticus lifts its blue 

Disk of a cloud the woodlands o'er; 
And southerly, when the tide is down, 
'Twixt white sea-waves and sand-hills brown, 
The beach-birds dance and the gray gulls wheel 
Over a floor of burnished steel. 

Once, in the old Colonial days, 

Two hundred years ago and more, 
A boat sailed down through the winding ways 

Of Hampton River to that low shore, 
Full of a goodly company 
Sailing out on the summer sea, 
Veering to catch the land-breeze light, 
With the Boar to left and the Rocks to right. 

In Hampton meadows, where mowers laid 
Their scythes to the swaths of salted grass, 

" Ah, well-a-day ! our hay must be made ! " 
A young man sighed, who saw them pass. 

Loud laughed his fellows to see him stand 

Whetting his scythe with a listless hand, 


Hearing a voice in a far-off song, 
Watching a white hand beckoning long. 

" Fie on the witch ! " cried a merry girl, 

As they rounded the point where Goody Cole * 

Sat by her door with her wheel atwirl, 
A bent and blear-eyed poor old soul. 

* The Goody Cole who figures in this poem and The 
Changeling was Eunice Cole, who for a quarter of a cen- 
tury or more was feared, persecuted, and hated as the 
witch of Hampton. She lived alone in a hovel a little 
distant from the spot where the Hampton Academy now 
stands, and there she died, unattended. When her death 
was discovered, she was hastily covered up in the earth 
near by, and a stake driven through her body, to exorcise 
the evil spirit. Rev. Stephen Bachiler or Batchelder was 
one of the ablest of the early New England preachers. 
His marriage late in life to a woman regarded by his 
church as disreputable induced him to return to England, 
where he enjoyed the esteem and favor of Oliver Crom- 
well during the Protectorate. [When Goody Cole was 
brought before the Quarter Sessions in 1680 to answer to 
the charge of being a witch, the court could not find satis- 
factory evidence of witchcraft, but so strong was the feel- 
ing against her that Major Waldron, the presiding magis- 
trate, ordered her to be imprisoned with a lock kept on 
her leg at the pleasure of the court. In such judicial action 
one can read the fear and vindictive spirit of the community 
at large.] 

" Oho I " she 7nuttered, "ye 're brave to-day ! n 


" Oho ! " she muttered, " ye 're brave to-day ! 
But I hear the little waves laugh and say, 
c The broth will be cold that waits at home ; 
For it 's one to go, but another to come ! ' " 

" She 's cursed," said the skipper ; " speak her fair : 

I 'm scary always to see her shake 
Her wicked head, with its wild gray hair, 

And nose like a hawk, and eyes like a snake." 
But merrily still, with laugh and shout, 
From Hampton River the boat sailed out, 
Till the huts and the flakes on Star seemed nigh, 
And they lost the scent of the pines of Rye. 

They dropped their lines in the lazy tide, 
Drawing up haddock and mottled cod ; 

They saw not the Shadow that walked beside, 
They heard not the feet with silence shod. 

But thicker and thicker a hot mist grew, 

Shot by the lightnings through and through; 

And muffled growls, like the growl of a beast, 

Ran along the sky from west to east. 

Then the skipper looked from the darkening 

Up to the dimmed and wading sun ; 
But he spake like a brave man cheerily, 

"Yet there is time for our homeward run." 


Veering and tacking, they backward wore ; 
And just as a breath from the woods ashore 
Blew out to whisper of danger past, 
The wrath of the storm came down at last! 

The skipper hauled at the heavy sail : 

" God be our help ! " he only cried, 
As the roaring gale, like the stroke of a flail, 

Smote the boat on its starboard side. 
The Shoalsmen looked, but saw alone 
Dark films of rain-cloud slantwise blown, 
Wild rocks lit up by the lightning's glare, 
The strife and torment of sea and air. 

Goody Cole looked out from her door : 

The Isles of Shoals were drowned and gone, 
Scarcely she saw the Head of the Boar 
Toss the foam from tusks of stone. 
She clasped her hands with a grip of pain, 
The tear on her cheek was not of rain : 
" They are lost," she muttered, u boat and 

crew ! 
Lord, forgive me ! my words were true ! " 

Suddenly seaward swept the squall ; 

The low sun smote through cloudy rack ; 
The Shoals stood clear in the light, and all 

The trend of the coast lay hard and black. 


But far and wide as eye could reach, 
No life was seen upon wave or beach ; 
The boat that went out at morning never 
Sailed back again into Hampton River. 

O mower, lean on thy bended snath, 

Look from the meadows green and low : 

The wind of the sea is a waft of death, 
The waves are singing a song of woe ! 

By silent river, by moaning sea, 

Long and vain shall thy watching be : 

Never again shall the sweet voice call, 

Never the white hand rise and fall ! 

O Rivermouth Rocks, how sad a sight 
Ye saw in the light of breaking day ! 
Dead faces looking up cold and white 

From sand and seaweed where they lay. 
The mad old witch-wife wailed and wept, 
And cursed the tide as it backward crept : 
" Crawl back, crawl back, blue water-snake ! 
Leave your dead for the hearts that break ! " 

Solemn it was in that old day 

In Hampton town and its log-built church, 
Where side by side the coffins lay 

And the mourners stood in aisle and porch. 


In the singing-seats young eyes were dim, 
The voices faltered that raised the hymn, 
And Father Dalton, grave and stern, 
Sobbed through his prayer and wept in turn. 

But his ancient colleague did not pray ; 

Under the weight of his fourscore years 
He stood apart with the iron-gray 

Of his strong brows knitted to hide his tears ; 
And a fair-faced woman of doubtful fame, 
Linking her own with his honored name, 
Subtle as sin, at his side withstood 
The felt reproach of her neighborhood. 

Apart with them, like them forbid, 

Old Goody Cole looked drearily round, 
As, two by two, with their faces hid, 

The mourners walked to the burying-ground. 
She let the staff from her clasped hands fall : 
" Lord, forgive us ! we 're sinners all ! " 
And the voice of the old man answered her : 
" Amen ! " said Father Bachiler. 

So, as I sat upon Appledore 

In the calm of a closing summer day, 
And the broken lines of Hampton shore 

In purple mist of cloudland lay, 


The Rivermouth Rocks their story told ; 
And waves aglow with sunset gold, 
Rising and breaking in steady chime, 
Beat the rhythm and kept the time. 

And the sunset paled, and warmed once more 

With a softer, tenderer after-glow ; 
In the east was moon-rise, with boats off-shore 

And sails in the distance drifting slow. 
The beacon glimmered from Portsmouth bar, 
The White Isle kindled its great red star ; 
And life and death in my old-time lay 
Mingled in peace like the night and day 

"Well ! " said the Man of Books, "your story 

Is really not ill told in verse. 
As the Celt said of purgatory, 

One might go farther and fare worse." 
The Reader smiled ; and once again 
With steadier voice took up his strain, 
While the fair singer from the neighboring tent 
Drew near, and at his side a graceful listener 



Where the Great Lake's sunny smiles 
Dimple round its hundred isles, 
And the mountain's granite ledge 
Cleaves the water like a wedge, 
Ringed about with smooth, gray stones, 
Rest the giant's mighty bones.* 

Close beside, in shade and gleam, 
Laughs and ripples Melvin stream ; 
Melvin water, mountain-born, 
All fair flowers its banks adorn ; 
All the woodland voices meet, 
Mingling with its murmurs sweet. 

Over lowlands forest-grown, 
Over waters island-strown, 
Over silver-sanded beach, 
Leaf-locked bay and misty reach, 
Melvin stream and burial-heap, 
Watch and ward the mountains keep. 

* At the mouth of the Melvin River, which empties 
into Moultonboro Bay in Lake Winnipesaukee, is a great 
mound. The Ossipee Indians had their home in the 
neighborhood of the bay, which is plentifully stocked 
with fish, and many relics of their occupation have been 


Who that Titan cromlech fills ? 
Forest-kaiser, lord o' the hills ? 
Knight who on the birchen tree 
Carved his savage heraldry ? 
Priest o' the pine-wood temples dim, 
Prophet, sage, or wizard grim ? 

Rugged type of primal man, 
Grim utilitarian, 

Loving woods for hunt and prowl, 
Lake and hill for fish and fowl, 
As the brown bear blind and dull 
To the grand and beautiful : 

Not for him the lesson drawn 
From the mountains smit with dawn. 
Star-rise, moon-rise, flowers of May, 
Sunset's purple bloom of day, — 
Took his life no hue from thence, 
Poor amid such affluence ? 

Haply unto hill and tree 
All too near akin was he : 
Unto him who stands afar 
Nature's marvels greatest are ; 
Who the mountain purple seeks 
Must not climb the higher peaks. 


Yet who knows, in winter tramp, 
Or the midnight of the camp, 
What revealings faint and far, 
Stealing down from moon and star, 
Kindled in that human clod 
Thought of destiny and God ? 

Stateliest forest patriarch, 
Grand in robes of skin and bark, 
What sepulchral mysteries, 
What weird funeral-rites, were his ? 
What sharp wail, what drear lament, 
Back scared wolf and eagle sent ? 

Now, whate'er he may have been, 
Low he lies as other men ; 
On his mound the partridge drums, 
There the noisy blue-jay comes ; 
Rank nor name nor pomp has he 
In the grave's democracy. 

Part thy blue lips, Northern lake ! 
Moss-grown rocks, your silence break ! 
Tell the tale, thou ancient tree ! 
Thou, too, slide-worn Ossipee ! 
Speak, and tell us how and when 
Lived and died this king of men ! 


Wordless moans the ancient pine; 
Lake and mountain give no sign ; 
Vain to trace this ring of stones ; 
Vain the search of crumbling bones : 
Deepest of all mysteries, 
And the saddest, silence is. 

Nameless, noteless, clay with clay 
Mingles slowly day by day ; 
But somewhere, for good or ill, 
That dark soul is living still ; 
Somewhere yet that atom's force 
Moves the light-poised universe. 

Strange that on his burial-sod 
Harebells bloom, and golden-rod, 
While the soul's dark horoscope 
Holds no starry sign of hope ! 
Is the Unseen with sight at odds ? 
Nature's pity more than God's ? 

Thus I mused by Melvin's side, 
While the summer eventide 
Made the woods and inland sea 
And the mountains mystery ; 
And the hush of earth and air 
Seemed the pause before a prayer, — 


Prayer for him, for all who rest, 

Mother Earth, upon thy breast, — 

Lapped on Christian turf, or hid 

In rock-cave or pyramid : 

All who sleep, as all who live, 

Well may need the prayer, " Forgive ! " 

Desert-smothered caravan, 
Knee-deep dust that once was man, 
Battle-trenches ghastly piled, 
Ocean-floors with white bones tiled, 
Crowded tomb and mounded sod, 
Dumbly crave that prayer to God. 

Oh, the generations old 

Over whom no church-bells tolled, 

Christless, lifting up blind eyes 

To the silence of the skies ! 

For the innumerable dead 

Is my soul disquieted. 

Where be now these silent hosts ? 
Where the camping-ground of ghosts ? 
Where the spectral conscripts led 
To the white tents of the dead ? 
What strange shore or chartless sea 
Holds the awful mystery ? 

Deepest of all mysteries \ 
A nd the saddest, silence is 


Then the warm sky stooped to make 
Double sunset in the lake ; 
While above I saw with it, 
Range on range, the mountains lit ; 
And the calm and splendor stole 
Like an answer to my soul. 

Hear'st thou, O of little faith, 
What to thee the mountain saith, 
What is whispered by the trees ? — 
" Cast on God thy care for these ; 
Trust Him, if thy sight be dim : 
Doubt for them is doubt of Him. 

" Blind must be their close-shut eyes 
Where like night the sunshine lies, 
Fiery-linked the self-forged chain 
Binding ever sin to pain, 
Strong their prison-house of will, 
But without He waiteth still. 

" Not with hatred's undertow 
Doth the Love Eternal flow ; 
Every chain that spirits wear 
Crumbles in the breath of prayer; 
And the penitent's desire 
Opens every gate of fire. 


Still Thy love, O Christ arisen, 
Yearns to reach these souls in prison : 
Through all depths of sin and loss 
Drops the plummet of Thy cross ! 
Never yet abyss was found 
Deeper than that cross could sound ! " 

Therefore well may Nature keep 
Equal faith with all who sleep, 
Set her watch of hills around 
Christian grave and heathen mound, 
And to cairn and kirkyard send 
Summer's flowery dividend. 

Keep, O pleasant Melvin stream, 

Thy sweet laugh in shade and gleam ! 

On the Indian's grassy tomb 

Swing, O flowers, your bells of bloom ! 

Deep below, as high above, 

Sweeps the circle of God's love. 

He paused and questioned with his eye 
The hearers' verdict on his song. 

A low voice asked : " Is 't well to pry 
Into the secrets which belong 

Only to God ? — The life to be 

Is still the unguessed mystery : 


Unsealed, unpierced the cloudy walls remain, 
We beat with dream and wish the soundless doors 
in vain. 

" But faith beyond our sight may go." 
He said : " The gracious Fatherhood 
Can only know above, below, 

Eternal purposes of good. 
From our free heritage of will, 
The bitter springs of pain and ill 
Flow only in all worlds. The perfect day 
Of God is shadowless, and love is love alway." 

" I know," she said, " the letter kills ; 
That on our arid fields of strife 
And heat of clashing texts distils 
The dew of spirit and of life. 
But, searching still the written Word, 
I fain would find, Thus saith the Lord, 
A voucher for the hope I also feel 
That sin can give no wound beyond love's power 
to heal. ,, 

" Pray," said the Man of Books, "give o'er 
A theme too vast for time and place. 
Go on, Sir Poet, ride once more 
Your hobby at his old free pace. 


But let him keep, with step discreet, 

The solid earth beneath his feet. 
In the great mystery which around us lies, 
The wisest is a fool, the fool Heaven-helped is 

The Traveller said : " If songs have creeds, 

Their choice of them let singers make ; 
But Art no other sanction needs 

Than beauty for its own fair sake. 
It grinds not in the mill of use, 
Nor asks for leave, nor begs excuse ; 
It makes the flexile laws it deigns to own, 
And gives its atmosphere its color and its tone. 

" Confess, old friend, your austere school 
Has left your fancy little chance ; 
You square to reason's rigid rule 

The flowing outlines of romance. 
With conscience keen from exercise, 
And chronic fear of compromise, 
You check the free play of your rhymes, to clap 
A moral underneath, and spring it like a trap." 

The sweet voice answered: "Better so 
Than bolder flights that know no check ; 

Better to use the bit, than throw 
The reins all loose on fancy's neck. 


The liberal range of Art should be 

The breadth of Christian liberty, 
Restrained alone by challenge and alarm 
Where its charmed footsteps tread the border land 
of harm. 

u Beyond the poet's sweet dream lives 
The eternal epic of the man. 
He wisest is who only gives, 

True to himself, the best he can ; 
Who, drifting in the winds of praise, 
The inward monitor obeys ; 
And, with the boldness that confesses fear, 
Takes in the crowded sail, and lets his conscience 

" Thanks for the fitting word he speaks, 
Nor less for doubtful word unspoken, 
For the false model that he breaks, 

As for the moulded grace unbroken ; 
For what is missed and what remains, 
For losses which are truest gains, 
For reverence conscious of the Eternal eye, 
And truth too fair to need the garnish of a lie." 

Laughing, the Critic bowed. " I yield 
The point without another word ; 

Who ever yet a case appealed 

Where beauty's judgment had been heard ? 


And you, my good friend, owe to me 
Your warmest thanks for such a plea, 
As true withal as sweet. For my offence 
Of cavil, let her words be ample recompense." 

Across the sea one lighthouse star, 

With crimson ray that came and went, 
Revolving on its tower afar, 

Looked through the doorway of the tent. 
While outward, over sand-slopes wet, 
The lamp flashed down its yellow jet 
On the long wash of waves, with red and green 
Tangles of weltering weed through the white foam- 
wreaths seen. 

u c Sing while we may-, — another day 

May bring enough of sorrow; ' — thus 
Our Traveller in his own sweet lay, 

His Crimean camp-song, hints to us." 
The lady said. " So let it be ; 
Sing us a song," exclaimed all three. 
She smiled : " I can but marvel at your choice 
To hear our poet's words through my poor borrowed 

Her window opens to the bay, 
On glistening light or misty gray, 


And there at dawn and set of day 

In prayer she kneels. 
4C Dear Lord ! " she saith, " to many a home 
From wind and wave the wanderers come ; 
I only see the tossing foam 

Of stranger keels. 

" Blown out and in by summer gales. 
The stately ships, with crowded sails, 
And sailors leaning o'er their rails, 

Before me glide ; 
They come, they go, but nevermore, 
Spice-laden from the Indian shore, 
I see his swift-winged Isidore 
The waves divide. 

u O Thou ! with whom the night is day 
And one the near and far away, 
Look out on yon gray waste, and say 

Where lingers he. 
Alive, perchance, on some lone beach 
Or thirsty isle beyond the reach 
Of man, he hears the mocking speech 

Of wind and sea. 

" O dread and cruel deep, reveal 
The secret which thy waves conceal, 
And, ye wild sea-birds, hither wheel 
And tell your tale. 


Let winds that tossed his raven hair 
A message from my lost one bear, — 
Some thought of me, a last fond prayer 
Or dying wail 

" Come, with your dreariest truth shut out 
The fears that haunt me round about ; 
O God ! I cannot bear this doubt 

That stifles breath. 
The worst is better than the dread ; 
Give me but leave to mourn my dead 
Asleep in trust and hope, instead 

Of life in death ! " 

It might have been the evening breeze 
That whispered in the garden trees, 
It might have been the sound of seas 
That rose and fell ; 
But, with her heart, if not her ear, 
The old loved voice she seemed to hear : 
" I wait to meet thee : be of cheer, 
For all is well ! " 

The sweet voice into silence went, 
A silence which was almost pain 

As through it rolled the long lament, 
The cadence of the mournful main. 


Glancing his written pages o'er, 
The Reader tried his part once more; 
Leaving the land of hackmatack and pine 
For Tuscan valleys glad with olive and with vine. 


Piero Luca, known of all the town 
As the gray porter by the Pitti wall 
Where the noon shadows of the gardens fall, 
Sick and in dolor, waited to lay down 
His last sad burden, and beside his mat 
The barefoot monk of La Certosa sat. 

Unseen, in square and blossoming garden drifted, 
Soft sunset lights through green Val d' Arno sifted; 
Unheard, below the living shuttles shifted 
Backward and forth, and wove, in love or strife, 
In mirth or pain, the mottled web of life : 
But when at last came upward from the street 
Tinkle of bell and tread of measured feet, 
The sick man started, strove to rise in vain, 
Sinking back heavily with a moan of pain. 
And the monk said, " 'T is but the Brotherhood 
Of Mercy going on some errand good : 
Their black masks by the palace-wall I see." 
Piero answered faintly, " Woe is me ! 


This day for the first time in forty years 

In vain the bell hath sounded in my ears, 

Calling me with my brethren of the mask, 

Beggar and prince alike, to some new task 

Of love or pity, — haply from the street 

To bear a wretch plague-stricken, or, with feet 

Hushed to the quickened ear and feverish brain, 

To tread the crowded lazaretto's floors, 

Down the long twilight of the corridors, 

Midst tossing arms and faces full of pain. 

I loved the work : it was its own reward. 

I never counted on it to offset 

My sins, which are many, or make less my debt 

To the free grace and mercy of our Lord ; 

But somehow, father, it has come to be 

In these long years so much a part of me, 

I should not know myself, if lacking it, 

But with the work the worker too would die, 

And in my place some other self would sit 

Joyful or sad, — what matters, if not I ? 

And now all 's over. Woe is me ! " — " My 

The monk said soothingly, " thy work is done ; 
And no more as a servant, but the guest 
Of God thou enterest thy eternal rest. 
No toil, no tears, no sorrow for the lost, 
Shall mar thy perfect bliss. Thou shalt sit down 
Clad in white robes, and wear a golden crown 


Forever and forever.'' — Piero tossed 
On his sick-pillow : " Miserable me ! 
I am too poor for such grand company ; 
The crown would be too heavy for this gray 
Old head ; and God forgive me if I say 
It would be hard to sit there night and day, 
Like an image in the Tribune, doing naught 
With these hard hands, that all my life have 

Not for bread only, but for pity's sake. 
I 'm dull at prayers : I could not keep awake, 
Counting my beads. Mine 's but a crazy head, 
Scarce worth the saving, if all else be dead. 
And if one goes to heaven without a heart, 
God knows he leaves behind his better part. 
I love my fellow-men : the worst I know 
I would do good to. Will death change me so 
That I shall sit among the lazy saints, 
Turning a deaf ear to the sore complaints 
Of souls that suffer ? Why, I never yet 
Left a poor dog in the strada hard beset, 
Or ass o'erladen ! Must I rate man less 
Than dog or ass, in holy selfishness ? 
Methinks (Lord, pardon, if the thought be sin !) 
The world of pain were better, if therein 
One's heart might still be human, and desires 
Of natural pity drop upon its fires 
Some cooling tears. " 


Thereat the pale monk crossed 
His brow, and muttering, " Madman ! thou art 

lost ! " 
Took up his pyx and fled ; and, left alone, 
The sick man closed his eyes with a great groan 
That sank into a prayer, u Thy will be done ! " 

Then was he made aware, by soul or ear, 
Of somewhat pure and holy bending o'er him, 
And of a voice like that of her who bore him, 
Tender and most compassionate : " Never fear ! 
For heaven is love, as God himself is love ; 
Thy work below shall be thy work above." 
And when he looked, lo ! in the stern monk's place 
He saw the shining of an angel's face ! 

The Traveller broke the pause. u I 've seen 
The Brothers down the long street steal, 

Black, silent, masked, the crowd between, 
And felt to dorF my hat and kneel 

With heart, if not with knee, in prayer, 

For blessings on their pious care." 

The Reader wiped his glasses : " Friends of mine, 

We '11 try our home-brewed next, instead of foreign 



For the fairest maid in Hampton 

They needed not to search, 
Who saw young Anna Favor 

Come walking into church, — 

Or bringing from the meadows, 

At set of harvest-day, 
The frolic of the blackbirds, 

The sweetness of the hay. 

Now the weariest of all mothers, 

The saddest two years' bride, 
She scowls in the face of her husband, 

And spurns her child aside. 

" Rake out the red coals, goodman, — 
For there the child shall lie, 
Till the black witch comes to fetch her 
And both up chimney fly. 

" It 's never my own little daughter, 

It 's never my own," she said ; 
" The witches have stolen my Anna, 

And left me an imp instead. 


" Oh, fair and sweet was my baby, 
Blue eyes, and hair of gold ; 
But this is ugly and wrinkled, 
Cross, and cunning, and old. 

u I hate the touch of her fingers, 
I hate the feel of her skin ; 
It 's not the milk from my bosom, 
But my blood, that she sucks in. 

" My face grows sharp with the torment ; 
Look ! my arms are skin and bone ! 
Rake open the red coals, goodman, 
And the witch shall have her own. 

" She '11 come when she hears it crying, 
In the shape of an owl or bat, 
And she '11 bring us our darling Anna 
In place of her screeching brat." 

Then the goodman, Ezra Dalton, 
Laid his hand upon her head : 
" Thy sorrow is great, O woman ! 
I sorrow with thee," he said. 

" The paths to trouble are many, 
And never but one sure way 
Leads out to the light beyond it : 
My poor wife, let us pray." 

" Lead her out of this evil shadow. 
Out of these fancies wiW 


Then he said to the great All-Father, 
" Thy daughter is weak and blind ; 

Let her sight come back, and clothe her 
Once more in her right mind. 

" Lead her out of this evil shadow, 
Out of these fancies wild ; 
Let the holy love of the mother 
Turn again to her child. 

" Make her lips like the lips of Mary 
Kissing her blessed Son ; 
Let her hands, like the hands of Jesus, 
Rest on her little one. 

" Comfort the soul of thy handmaid, 
Open her prison-door, 
And thine shall be all the glory 
And praise forevermore." 

Then into the face of its mother 
The baby looked up and smiled ; 

And the cloud of her soul was lifted, 
And she knew her little child. 

A beam of the slant west sunshine 
Made the wan face almost fair, 

Lit the blue eyes' patient wonder 
And the rings of pale gold hair. 


She kissed it on lip and forehead^ 
She kissed it on cheek and chin, 

And she bared her snow-white bosom 
To the lips so pale and thin. 

Oh, fair on her bridal morning 

Was the maid who blushed and smiled, 

But fairer to Ezra Dalton 

Looked the mother of his child. 

With more than a lover's fondness 
He stooped to her worn young face, 

And the nursing child and the mother 
He folded in one embrace. 

" Blessed be God ! " he murmured. 

" Blessed be God ! " she said ; 
" For I see, who once was blinded, — 

I live, who once was dead. 

" Now mount and ride, my goodman, 
As thou lovest thy own soul ! 
Woe 's me, if my wicked fancies 
Be the death of Goody Cole ! " 

His horse he saddled and bridled, 
And into the night rode he, 

Now through the great black woodland, 
Now by the white-beached sea. 


He rode through the silent clearings, 

He came to the ferry wide, 
And thrice he called to the boatman 

Asleep on the other side. 

He set his horse to the river, 

He swam to Newbury town, 
And he called up Justice Sewall 

In his nightcap and his gown. 

And the grave and worshipful justice 

(Upon whose soul be peace!) 
Set his name to the jailer's warrant 

For Goodwife Cole's release. 

Then through the night the hoof-beats 

Went sounding like a flail ; 
And Goody Cole at cockcrow 

Came forth from Ipswich jail. 

" Here is a rhyme : I hardly dare 

To venture on its theme worn out ; 
What seems so sweet by Doon and Ayr 

Sounds simply silly hereabout ; 
And pipes by lips Arcadian blown 
Are only tin horns at our own. 
Yet still the muse of pastoral walks with us, 
While Hosea Biglow sings, our new Theocritus." 



In sky and wave the white clouds swam, 
And the blue hills of Nottingham 

Through gaps of leafy green 

Across the lake were seen, 

When, in the shadow of the ash 
That dreams its dream in Attitash, 

In the warm summer weather, 

Two maidens sat together. 

They sat and watched in idle mood 
The gleam and shade of lake and wood ; 

The beach the keen light smote, 

The white sail of a boat ; 

Swan flocks of lilies shoreward lying, 
In sweetness, not in music, dying ; 

* Attitash, an Indian word signifying " huckleberry," 
is the name of a large and beautiful lake in the northern 
part of Amesbury. [In a letter to Mr. Fields, Whittier 
wrote : "I should like to show thee Attitash, as it is as 
pretty as St. Mary's Lake which Wordsworth sings, in 
fact a great deal prettier. The glimpse of the Pawtuck- 
away range of mountains in Nottingham seen across it is 
very fine, and it has noble groves of pines and maples and 
ash trees."] 

In the shadow of the ash 


Hardhack, and virgin's-bower, 
And white-spiked clethra-flower. 

With careless ears they heard the plash 
And breezy wash of Attitash, 

The wood-bird's plaintive cry, 

The locust's sharp reply. 

And teased the while, with playful hand, 
The shaggy dog of Newfoundland, 

Whose uncouth frolic spilled 

Their baskets berry-filled. 

Then one, the beauty of whose eyes 
Was evermore a great surprise, 

Tossed back her queenly head, 

And lightly laughing, said : 

u No bridegroom's hand be mine to hold 
That is not lined with yellow gold ; 
I tread no cottage-floor; 
I own no lover poor. 

41 My love must come on silken wings, 
With bridal lights of diamond rings, 
Not foul with kitchen smirch, 
With tallow-dip for torch." 


The other, on whose modest head 
Was lesser dower of beauty shed, 
With look for home-hearths meet, 
And voice exceeding sweet, 

Answered, " We will not rivals be ; 

Take thou the gold, leave love to me ; 
Mine be the cottage small, 
And thine the rich man's hall. 

" I know, indeed, that wealth is good ; 
But lowly roof and simple food, 
With love that hath no doubt, 
Are more than gold without." 

Hard by a farmer hale and young 
His cradle in the rye-field swung, 
Tracking the yellow plain 
With windrows of ripe grain. 

And still, whene'er he paused to whet 
His scythe, the sidelong glance he met 
Of large dark eyes, where strove 
False pride and secret love. 

Be strong, young mower of the grain > 
That love shall overmatch disdain, 
Its instincts soon or late 
The heart shall vindicate. 


In blouse of gray, with fishing-rod, 
Half screened by leaves, a stranger trod 

The margin of the pond, 

Watching the group beyond. 

The supreme hours unnoted come ; 

Unfelt the turning tides of doom ; 
And so the maids laughed on, 
Nor dreamed what Fate had done, — 

Nor knew the step was Destiny's 
That rustled in the birchen trees, 

As, with their lives forecast, 

Fisher and mower passed. 

Erelong by lake and rivulet side 
The summer roses paled and died, 

And Autumn's fingers shed 

The maple's leaves of red. 

Through the long gold-hazed afternoon, 
Alone, but for the diving loon, 

The partridge in the brake, 

The black duck on the lake, 

Beneath the shadow of the ash 
Sat man and maid by Attitash ; 

And earth and air made room 

For human hearts to bloom. 


Soft spread the carpets of the sod, 
And scarlet-oak and golden-rod 

With blushes and with smiles 

Lit up the forest aisles. 

The mellow light the lake aslant, 
The pebbled margin's ripple-chant 

Attempered and low-toned, 

The tender mystery owned. 

And through the dream the lovers dreamed 
Sweet sounds stole in and soft lights streamed; 

The sunshine seemed to bless, 

The air was a caress. 

Not she who lightly laughed is there, 
With scornful toss of midnight hair, 

Her dark, disdainful eyes, 

And proud lip worldly-wise. 

Her haughty vow is still unsaid, 
But all she dreamed and coveted 

Wears, half to her surprise, 

The youthful farmer's guise ! 

With more than all her old-time pride 
She walks the rye-field at his side, 

Careless of cot or hall, 

Since love transfigures all. 


Rich beyond dreams, the vantage-ground 
Of life is gained ; her hands have found 

The talisman of old 

That changes all to gold. 

While she who could for love dispense 
With all its glittering accidents, 

And trust her heart alone, 

Finds love and gold her own. 

What wealth can buy or art can build 
Awaits her ; but her cup is filled 

Even now unto the brim ; 

Her world is love and him ! 

The while he heard, the Book-man drew 

A length of make-believing face, 
With smothered mischief laughing through : 

"Why, you shall sit in Ramsay's place, 
And, with his Gentle Shepherd, keep 
On Yankee hills immortal sheep, 
While love-lorn swains and maids the seas beyond 
Hold dreamy tryst around your huckleberry-pond." 

The Traveller laughed : " Sir Galahad 
Singing of love the Trouvere's lay ! 


How should he know the blindfold lad 

From one of Vulcan's forge-boys ? " — u Nay, 
He better sees who stands outside 
Than they who in procession ride," 
The Reader answered : " selectmen and squire 
Miss, while they make, the show that wayside 
folks admire. 

" Here is a wild tale of the North, 

Our travelled friend will own as one 
Fit for a Norland Christmas hearth 
And lips of Christian Andersen. 
They tell it in the valleys green 
Of the fair island he has seen, 
Low lying off the pleasant Swedish shore, 
Washed by the Baltic Sea, and watched by Elsi- 


"Tie stille, barn min ! 
Imorgen kommer Fin, 
Fa'er din, 
Og gi'er dig Esbern Snares dine og hjerte at lege med ! " 

Zealand Rhyme. 

u Build at Kallundborg by the sea 
A church as stately as church may be, 
And there shalt thou wed my daughter fair,'' 
Said the Lord of Nesvek to Esbern Snare. 


And the Baron laughed. But Esbern said, 
u Though I lose my soul, I will Helva wed ! " 
And off he strode, in his pride of will, 
To the Troll who dwelt in Ulshoi hill. 

" Build, O Troll, a church for me 
At Kallundborg by the mighty sea ; 
Build it stately, and build it fair, 
Build it quickly," said Esbern Snare. 

But the sly Dwarf said, " No work is wrought 
By Trolls of the Hills, O man, for naught. 
What wilt thou give for thy church so fair ? " 
" Set thy own price," quoth Esbern Snare. 

" When Kallundborg church is builded well, 
Thou must the name of its builder tell, 
Or thy heart and thy eyes must be my boon." 

" Build," said Esbern, " and build it soon." 

By night and by day the Troll wrought on ; 
He hewed the timbers, he piled the stone ; 
But day by day, as the walls rose fair, 
Darker and sadder grew Esbern Snare. 

He listened by night, he watched by day, 
He sought and thought, but he dared not pray ; 
In vain he called on the Elle-maids shy, 
And the Neck and the Nis gave no reply. 


Of his evil bargain far and wide 
A rumor ran through the country-side ; 
And Helva of Nesvek, young and fair, 
Prayed for the soul of Esbern Snare. 

And now the church was wellnigh done ; 
One pillar it lacked, and one alone ; 
And the grim Troll muttered, " Fool thou art ! 
To-morrow gives me thy eyes and heart ! " 

By Kallundborg in black despair, 
Through wood and meadow, walked Esbern Snare, 
Till, worn and weary, the strong man sank 
Under the birches on Ulshoi bank. 

At his last day's work he heard the Troll 
Hammer and delve in the quarry's hole ; 
Before him the church stood large and fair : 
u I have builded my tomb," said Esbern Snare. 

And he closed his eyes the sight to hide, 
When he heard a light step at his side : 
" O Esbern Snare ! " a sweet voice said, 
" Would I might die now in thy stead ! " 

With a grasp by love and by fear made strong, 
He held her fast, and he held her long ; 
With the beating heart of a bird afeard, 
She hid her face in his flame-red beard. 

Now the church was wellniph done 


" O love ! " he cried, " let me look to-day 
In thine eyes ere mine are plucked away ; 
Let me hold thee close, let me feel thy heart 
Ere mine by the Troll is torn apart ! 

" I sinned, O Helva, for love of thee ! 
Pray that the Lord Christ pardon me ! " 
But fast as she prayed, and faster still, 
Hammered the Troll in Ulshoi hill. 

He knew, as he wrought, that a loving heart 

Was somehow baffling his evil art ; 

For more than spell of Elf or Troll 

Is a maiden's prayer for her lover's soul. 

And Esbern listened, and caught the sound 
Of a Troll-wife singing underground: 
u To-morrow comes Fine, father thine : 
Lie still and hush thee, baby mine ! 

" Lie still, my darling ! next sunrise 

Thou 'It play with Esbern Snare's heart and 
eyes ! " 
" Ho ! ho ! " quoth Esbern, " is that your game ? 

Thanks to the Troll-wife, I know his name ! " 

The Troll he heard him, and hurried on 

To Kallundborg church with the lacking stone. 


" Too late, Gaffer Fine ! " cried Esbern Snare ; 
And Troll and pillar vanished in air ! 

That night the harvesters heard the sound 
Of a woman sobbing underground, 
And the voice of the Hill-Troll loud with blame 
Of the careless singer who told his name. 

Of the Troll of the Church they sing the 

By the Northern Sea in the harvest moon ; 
And the fishers of Zealand hear him still 
Scolding his wife in Ulshoi hill. 

And seaward over its groves of birch 
Still looks the tower of Kallundborg church, 
Where, first at its altar, a wedded pair, 
Stood Helva of Nesvek and Esbern Snare ! 

" What," asked the Traveller, " would our 
The old Norse story-tellers, say 
Of sun-graved pictures, ocean wires, 

And smoking steamboats of to-day ? 
And this, O lady, by your leave, 
Recalls your song of yester eve : 


Pray, let us have that Cable-hymn once more." 
u Hear, hear ! " the Book-man cried, " the lady 
has the floor. 

" These noisy waves below perhaps 

To such a strain will lend their ear, 
With softer voice and lighter lapse 

Come stealing up the sands to hear, 
And what they once refused to do 
For old King Knut accord to you. 
Nay, even the fishes shall your listeners be, 
As once, the legend runs, they heard St. Anthony." 


O lonely bay of Trinity, 

O dreary shores, give ear ! 
Lean down unto the white-lipped sea 

The voice of God to hear ! 

From world to world His couriers fly, 
Thought-winged and shod with fire; 

The angel of His stormy sky 
Rides down the sunken wire. 

What saith the herald of the Lord ? 
" The world's long strife is done ; 


Close wedded by that mystic cord, 
Its continents are one. 

" And one in heart, as one in blood, 
Shall all her peoples be ; 
The hands of human brotherhood 
Are clasped beneath the sea. 

" Through Orient seas, o'er Afric's plain 
And Asian mountains borne, 
The vigor of the Northern brain 
Shall nerve the world outworn 

" From clime to clime, from shore to shore, 
Shall thrill the magic thread ; 
The new Prometheus steals once more 
The fire that wakes the dead." 

Throb on, strong pulse of thunder ! beat 
From answering beach to beach ; 

Fuse nations in thy kindly heat, 
And melt the chains of each ! 

Wild terror of the sky above, 
Glide tamed and dumb below ! 

Bear gently, Ocean's carrier-dove, 
Thy errands to and fro. 


Weave on, swift shuttle of the Lord, 

Beneath the deep so far, 
The bridal robe of earth's accord, 

The funeral shroud of war ! 

For lo ! the fall of Ocean's wall 
Space mocked and time outrun; 

And round the world the thought of all 
Is as the thought of one ! 

The poles unite, the zones agree, 

The tongues of striving cease ; 
As on the Sea of Galilee 

The Christ is whispering, Peace ! 

" Glad prophecy ! to this at last," 

The Reader said, " shall all things come. 
Forgotten be the bugle's blast, 

And battle-music of the drum. 
A little while the world may run 
Its old mad way, with needle-gun 
And ironclad, but truth, at last, shall reign : 
The cradle-song of Christ was never sung in vain ! 

Shifting his scattered papers, " Here," 
He said, as died the faint applause, 


" Is something that I found last year 

Down on the island known as Orr's. 
I had it from a fair-haired girl 
Who, oddly, bore the name of Pearl, 
(As if by some droll freak of circumstance,) 
Classic, or wellnigh so, in Harriet Stowe's romance." 


What flecks the outer gray beyond 

The sundown's golden trail ? 
The white flash of a sea-bird's wing, 

Or gleam of slanting sail ? 
Let young eyes watch from Neck and Point, 

And sea-worn elders pray, — 
The ghost of what was once a ship 

Is sailing up the bay ! 

From gray sea-fog, from icy drift, 

From peril and from pain, 
The home-bound fisher greets thy lights, 

O hundred-harbored Maine ! 
But many a keel shall seaward turn, 

And many a sail outstand, 
When, tall and white, the Dead Ship looms 

Against the dusk of land. 

The ghost of what was once a shi£ 


She rounds the headland's bristling pines ; 

She threads the isle-set bay ; 
No spur of breeze can speed her on, 

Nor ebb of tide delay. 
Old men still walk the Isle of Orr 

Who tell her date and name, 
Old shipwrights sit in Freeport yards 

Who hewed her oaken frame. 

What weary doom of baffled quest, 

Thou sad sea-ghost, is thine ? 
What makes thee in the haunts of home 

A wonder and a sign ? 
No foot is on thy silent deck, 

Upon thy helm no hand ; 
No ripple hath the soundless wind 

That smites thee from the land ! 

For never comes the ship to port, 

Howe'er the breeze may be ; 
Just when she nears the waiting shore 

She drifts again to sea. 
No tack of sail, nor turn of helm, 

Nor sheer of veering side ; 
Stern-fore she drives to sea and night, 

Against the wind and tide. 

In vain o'er Harpswell Neck the star 
Of evening guides her in ; 


In vain for her the lamps are lit 

Within thy tower, Seguin ! 
In vain the harbor-boat shall hail, 

In vain the pilot call -> 
No hand shall reef her spectral sail, 

Or let her anchor fall. 

Shake, brown old wives, with dreary joy, 

Your gray-head hints of ill ; 
And, over sick-beds whispering low, 

Your prophecies fulfil. 
Some home amid yon birchen trees 

Shall drape its door with woe ; 
And slowly where the Dead Ship sails, 

The burial boat shall row ! 

From Wolf Neck and from Flying Point, 

From island and from main, 
From sheltered cove and tided creek, 

Shall glide the funeral train. 
The dead-boat with the bearers four, 

The mourners at her stern, — 
And one shall go the silent way 

Who shall no more return ! 

And men shall sigh, and women weep, 
Whose dear ones pale and pine, 

And sadly over sunset seas 
Await the ghostly sign. 


They know not that its sails are filled 

By pity's tender breath, 
Nor see the Angel at the helm 

Who steers the Ship of Death ! 

" Chill as a down-east breeze should be," 
The Book-man said. u A ghostly touch 
The legend has. I'm glad to see 

Your flying Yankee beat the Dutch." 
u Well, here is something of the sort 

Which one midsummer day I caught 
In Narragansett Bay, for lack of fish." 
u We wait," the Traveller said \ " serve hot or cold 
your dish." 


Leagues north, as fly the gull and auk, 
Point Judith watches with eye of hawk ; 
Leagues south, thy beacon flames, Montauk ! 

* Block Island in Long Island Sound, called by the In- 
dians Manisees, the isle of the little god, was the scene of 
a tragic incident a hundred years or more ago, when The 
Palatine, an emigrant ship bound for Philadelphia, driven 


Lonely and wind-shorn, wood-forsaken, 
With never a tree for Spring to waken, 
For tryst of lovers or farewells taken, 

Circled by waters that never freeze, 
Beaten by billow and swept by breeze, 
Lieth the island of Manisees, 

Set at the mouth of the Sound to hold 
The coast lights up on its turret old, 
Yellow with moss and sea-fog mould. 

Dreary the land when gust and sleet 
At its doors and windows howl and beat, 
And Winter laughs at its fires of peat ! 

But in summer time, when pool and pond, 

Held in the laps of valleys fond, 

Are blue as the glimpses of sea beyond ; 

off its course, came upon the coast at this point. A 
mutiny on board, followed by an inhuman desertion on 
the part of the crew, had brought the unhappy passengers 
to the verge of starvation and madness. Tradition says 
that wreckers on shore, after rescuing all but one of the 
survivors, set fire to the vessel, which was driven out to 
sea before a gale which had sprung up. Every twelve- 
month, according to the same tradition, the spectacle of a 
ship on fire is visible to the inhabitants of the island. 


When the hills are sweet with the brier-rose, 
And, hid in the warm, soft dells, unclose 
Flowers the mainland rarely knows ; 

When boats to their morning fishing go, 
And, held to the wind and slanting low, 
Whitening and darkening the small sails show, — 

Then is that lonely island fair; 

And the pale health-seeker findeth there 

The wine of life in its pleasant air. 

No greener valleys the sun invite, 

On smoother beaches no sea-birds light, 

No blue waves shatter to foam more white ! 

There, circling ever their narrow range, 

Quaint tradition and legend strange 

Live on unchallenged, and know no change. 

Old wives spinning their webs of tow, 

Or rocking weirdly to and fro 

In and out of the peat's dull glow, 

And old men mending their nets of twine, 
Talk together of dream and sign, 
Talk of the lost ship Palatine, — 


The ship that, a hundred years before, 
Freighted deep with its goodly store, 
In the gales of the equinox went ashore. 

The eager islanders one by one 

Counted the shots of her signal gun, 

And heard the crash when she drove right on ! 

Into the teeth of death she sped : 
(May God forgive the hands that fed 
The false lights over the rocky Head !) 

O men and brothers ! what sights were there ! 
White upturned faces, hands stretched in prayer ! 
Where waves had pity, could ye not spare ? 

Down swooped the wreckers, like birds of prey 
Tearing the heart of the ship away, 
And the dead had never a word to say. 

And then, with ghastly shimmer and shine 
Over the rocks and the seething brine, 
They burned the wreck of the Palatine. 

In their cruel hearts, as they homeward sped, 
" The sea and the rocks are dumb," they said : 
" There '11 be no reckoning with the dead." 

They fairned the wreck of the Palatine 


But the year went round, and when once more 
Along their foam-white curves of shore 
They heard the line-storm rave and roar, 

Behold ! again, with shimmer and shine, 
Over the rocks and the seething brine, 
The flaming wreck of the Palatine ! 

So, haply in fitter words than these, 
Mending their nets on their patient knees, 
They tell the legend of Manisees. 

Nor looks nor tones a doubt betray ; 
" It is known to us all," they quietly say ; 
We too have seen it in our day." 

Is there, then, no death for a word once spoken ? 
Was never a deed but left its token 
Written on tables never broken ? 

Do the elements subtle reflections give ? 
Do pictures of all the ages live 
On Nature's infinite negative, 

Which, half in sport, in malice half, 

She shows at times, with shudder or laugh, 

Phantom and shadow in photograph ? 


For still, on many a moonless night, 

From Kingston Head and from Montauk light 

The spectre kindles and burns in sight. 

Now low and dim, now clear and higher, 
Leaps up the terrible Ghost of Fire, 
Then, slowly sinking, the flames expire, 

And the wise Sound skippers, though skies be fine, 
Reef their sails when they see the sign 
Of the blazing wreck of the Palatine ! 

" A fitter tale to scream than sing," 

The Book-man said. " Well, fancy, then," 
The Reader answered, " on the wing 

The sea-birds shriek it, not for men, 
But in the ear of wave and breeze ! " 
The Traveller mused : " Your Manisees 
Is fairy-land : off* Narragansett shore 
Who ever saw the isle or heard its name before ? 

" 'T is some strange land of Flyaway, 

Whose dreamy shore the ship beguiles, 
St. Brandan's in its sea-mist gray, 

Or sunset loom of Fortunate Isles ! " 

" No ghost, but solid turf and rock 


Is the good island known as Block," 
The Reader said. " For beauty and for ease 
I chose its Indian name, soft-flowing Manisees ! 

u But let it pass ; here is a bit 

Of unrhymed story, with a hint 
Of the old preaching mood in it, 

The sort of sidelong moral squint 
Our friend objects to, which has grown, 
I fear, a habit of my own. 
'T was written when the Asian plague drew near, 
And the land held its breath and paled with sudden 


In the old days (a custom laid aside 
With breeches and cocked hats) the people sent 
Their wisest men to make the public laws. 
And so, from a brown homestead, where the Sound 
Drinks the small tribute of the Mianas, 

* The famous Dark Day of New England, May 19, 
1780, was a physical puzzle for many years to our an- 
cestors, but its occurrence brought something more than 
philosophical speculation into the minds of those who 
passed through it. The incident of Colonel Abraham 
Davenport's sturdy protest is a matter of history. 


Waved over by the woods of Rippowams, 
And hallowed by pure lives and tranquil deaths, 
Stamford sent up to the councils of the State 
Wisdom and grace in Abraham Davenport. 

'T was on a May-day of the far old year 
Seventeen hundred eighty, that there fell 
Over the bloom and sweet life of the Spring, 
Over the fresh earth and the heaven of noon, 
A horror of great darkness, like the night 
In day of which the Norland sagas tell, — 
The Twilight of the Gods. The low-hung sky 
Was black with ominous clouds, save where its 

Was fringed with a dull glow, like that which 

The crater's sides from the red hell below. 
Birds ceased to sing, and all the barn-yard fowls 
Roosted ; the cattle at the pasture bars 
Lowed, and looked homeward ; bats on leathern 

Flitted abroad ; the sounds of labor died ; 
Men prayed, and women wept ; all ears grew sharp 
To hear the doom-blast of the trumpet shatter 
The black sky, that the dreadful face of Christ 
Might look from the rent clouds, not as He looked 
A loving guest at Bethany, but stern 
As Justice and inexorable Law. 


Meanwhile in the old State House, dim as ghosts, 
Sat the lawgivers of Connecticut, 
Trembling beneath their legislative robes. 
" It is the Lord's Great Day ! Let us adjourn," 
Some said ; and then, as if with one accord, 
All eyes were turned to Abraham Davenport. 
He rose, slow cleaving with his steady voice 
The intolerable hush. " This well may be 
The Day of Judgment which the world awaits ; 
But be it so or not, I only know 
My present duty, and my Lord's command 
To occupy till He come. So at the post 
Where He hath set me in His providence, 
I choose, for one, to meet Him face to face, — 
No faithless servant frightened from my task, 
But ready when the Lord of the harvest calls ; 
And therefore, with all reverence, I would say, 
Let God do His work, we will see to ours. 
Bring in the candles." And they brought them 

Then by the flaring lights the Speaker read, 
Albeit with husky voice and shaking hands, 
An act to amend an act to regulate 
The shad and alewive fisheries. Whereupon 
Wisely and well spoke Abraham Davenport, 
Straight to the question, with no figures of speech 
Save trie ten Arab signs, yet not without 


The shrewd dry humor natural to the man : 
His awe-struck colleagues listening all the while, 
Between the pauses of his argument, 
To hear the thunder of the wrath of God 
Break from the hollow trumpet of the cloud. 

And there he stands in memory to this day, 
Erect, self-poised, a rugged face, half seen 
Against the background of unnatural dark, 
A witness to the ages as they pass, 
That simple duty hath no place for fear. 

He ceased : just then the ocean seemed 

To lift a half-faced moon in sight ; 
And, shoreward, o'er the waters gleamed, 

From crest to crest, a line of light, 
Such as of old, with solemn awe, 
The fishers by Gennesaret saw, 
When dry-shod o'er it walked the Son of God, 
Tracking the waves with light where'er his sandals 

Silently for a space each eye 

Upon that sudden glory turned : 
Cool from the land the breeze blew by, 

The tent-ropes flapped, the long beach churned 

" Let God do His work, we will see to oicrs ' 

l( §t ®m &®Mi9 w®! 


Its waves to foam ; on either hand 
Stretched, far as sight, the hills of sand 
With bays of marsh, and capes of bush and tree, 
The wood's black shore-line loomed beyond the 
meadowy sea. 

The lady rose to leave. " One song, 

Or hymn," they urged, " before we part." 
And she, with lips to which belong 

Sweet intuitions of all art, 
Gave to the winds of night a strain 
Which they who heard would hear again ; 
And to her voice the solemn ocean lent, 
Touching its harp of sand, a deep accompani- 


The harp at Nature's advent strung 

Has never ceased to play ; 
The song the stars of morning sung 

Has never died away. 

And prayer is made, and praise is given, 

By all things near and far; 
The ocean looketh up to heaven, 

And mirrors every star. 


Its waves are kneeling on the strand, 

As kneels the human knee, 
Their white locks bowing to the sand, 

The priesthood of the sea ! 

They pour their glittering treasures forth, 
Their gifts of pearl they bring, 

And all the listening hills of earth 
Take up the song they sing. 

The green earth sends her incense up 
From many a mountain shrine ; 

From folded leaf and dewy cup 
She pours her sacred wine. 

The mists above the morning rills 
Rise white as wings of prayer ; 

The altar-curtains of the hills 
Are sunset's purple air. 

The winds with hymns of praise are loud, 
Or low with sobs of pain, — 

The thunder-organ of the cloud, 
The dropping tears of rain. 

With drooping head and branches crossed 

The twilight forest grieves, 
Or speaks with tongues of Pentecost 

From all its sunlit leaves. 


The blue sky is the temple's arch, 

Its transept earth and air, 
The music of its starry march 

The chorus of a prayer. 

So Nature keeps the reverent frame 

With which her years began, 
And all her signs and voices shame 

The prayerless heart of man. 

The singer ceased. The moon's white rays 
Fell on the rapt, still face of her. 
" Allah il Allah ! He hath praise 

From all things," said the Traveller. 
" Oft from the desert's silent nights, 

And mountain hymns of sunset lights, 
My heart has felt rebuke, as in his tent 
The Moslem's prayer has shamed my Christian 
knee unbent." 

He paused, and lo ! far, faint, and slow 

The bells in Newbury's steeples tolled 
The twelve dead hours ; the lamp burned low ; 

The singer sought her canvas fold. 
One sadly said, " At break of day 
We strike our tent and go our way." 
But one made answer cheerily, " Never fear, 
We '11 pitch this tent of ours in type another year." 


The incidents upon which the following bal- 
lad has its foundation occurred about the year 
1660. Thomas Macy was one of the first, if not 
the first white settler of Nantucket. The career 
of Macy is briefly but carefully outlined in James S. 
Pike's The New Puritan. 


THE goodman sat beside his door, 
One sultry afternoon, 
With his young wife singing at his side 
An old and goodly tune. 

A glimmer of heat was in the air, — 
The dark green woods were still ; 

And the skirts of a heavy thunder-cloud 
Hung over the western hill. 

Black, thick, and vast arose that cloud 

Above the wilderness, 
As some dark world from upper air 

Were stooping over this. 

At times the solemn thunder pealed, 

And all was still again, 
Save a low murmur in the air 

Of coming wind and rain. 

Just as the first big rain-drop fell, 

A weary stranger came, 
And stood before the farmer's door, 

With travel soiled and lame. 


Sad seemed he, yet sustaining hope 

Was in his quiet glance, 
And peace, like autumn's moonlight, clothed 

His tranquil countenance, — 

A look, like that his Master wore 

In Pilate's council-hall : 
It told of wrongs, but of a love 

Meekly forgiving all. 

" Friend ! wilt thou give me shelter here ? " 
The stranger meekly said ; 
And, leaning on his oaken staff, 
The goodman's features read. 

" My life is hunted, — evil men 
Are following in my track ; 
The traces of the torturer's whip 
Are on my aged back ; 

M And much, I fear, 't will peril thee 
Within thy doors to take 
A hunted seeker of the Truth, 
Oppressed for conscience' sake.' 3 

Oh, kindly spoke the goodman's wife, 
" Come in, old man ! " quoth she, 
" We will not leave thee to the storm, 
Whoever thou mayst be." 


Then came the aged wanderer in, 

And silent sat him down ; 
While all within grew dark as night 

Beneath the storm-cloud's frown. 

But while the sudden lightning's blaze 

Filled every cottage nook, 
And with the jarring thunder-roll 

The loosened casements shook, 

A heavy tramp of horses' feet 

Came sounding up the lane, 
And half a score of horse, or more, 

Came plunging through the rain. 

"Now, Goodman Macy, ope thy door, 
We would not be house-breakers ; 
A rueful deed thou 'st done this day, 
In harboring banished Quakers." 

Out looked the cautious goodman then, 

With much of fear and awe, 
For there, with broad wig drenched with rain, 

The parish priest he saw. 

" Open thy door, thou wicked man, 
And let thy pastor in, 
And give God thanks, if forty stripes 
Repay thy deadly sin." 


" What seek ye ? " quoth the goodman ; 
" The stranger is my guest ; 
He is worn with toil and grievous wrong, — » 
Pray let the old man rest." 

" Now, out upon thee, canting knave ! " 
And strong hands shook the door. 

" Believe me, Macy," quoth the priest, 
" Thou 'It rue thy conduct sore." 

Then kindled Macy's eye of fire : 
" No priest who walks the earth, 

Shall pluck away the stranger-guest 
Made welcome to my hearth." 

Down from his cottage wall he caught 

The matchlock, hotly tried 
At Preston-pans and Marston-moor, 

By fiery Ireton's side; 

Where Puritan and Cavalier 

With shout and psalm contended ; 

And Rupert's oath, and Cromwell's prayer, 
With battle-thunder blended. 

Up rose the ancient stranger then : 

" My spirit is not free 
To bring the wrath and violence 

Of evil men on thee ; 


" And for thyself, I pray forbear, 
Bethink thee of thy Lord, 
Who healed again the smitten ear, 
And sheathed His follower's sword. 

" I go, as to the slaughter led. 

Friends of the poor, farewell ! " 
Beneath his hand the oaken door 
Back on its hinges fell. 

" Come forth, old graybeard, yea and nay," 
The reckless scoffers cried, 
As to a horseman's saddle-bow 
The old man's arms were tied. 

And of his bondage hard and long 

In Boston's crowded jail, 
Where suffering woman's prayer was heard, 

With sickening childhood's wail, 

It suits not with our tale to tell ; 

Those scenes have passed away ; 
Let the dim shadows of the past 

Brood o'er that evil day. 

" Ho, sheriff! " quoth the ardent priest, 
u Take Goodman Macy too ; 
The sin of this day's heresy 
His back or purse shall rue." 


" Now, goodwife, haste thee ! " Macy cried. 
She caught his manly arm ; 
Behind, the parson urged pursuit, 
With outcry and alarm. 

Ho ! speed the Macys, neck or naught, — 

The river-course was near ; 
The plashing on its pebbled shore 

Was music to their ear. 

A gray rock, tasselled o'er with birch, 

Above the waters hung, 
And at its base, with every wave, 

A small light wherry swung. 

A leap — they gain the boat — and there 
The goodman wields his oar; 
" 111 luck betide them all," he cried, 
" The laggards on the shore." 

Down through the crashing underwood, 
The burly sheriff came : — 
"Stand, Goodman Macy, yield thyself; 
Yield in the King's own name." 

" Now out upon thy hangman's face ! " 
Bold Macy answered then, — 

" Whip women, on the village green, 
But meddle not with men." 

"fgo, as to the slaughter led" 


The priest came panting to the shore, 

His grave cocked hat was gone ; 
Behind him, like some owl's nest, hung 

His wig upon a thorn. 

" Come back ! come back ! " the parson cried, 

"The church's curse beware." 
" Curse, an thou wilt," said Macy, " but 

Thy blessing prithee spare." 

" Vile scoffer ! " cried the baffled priest, 

" Thou 'It yet the gallows see." 
" Who 's born to be hanged will not be drowned," 

Quoth Macy, merrily ; 

u And so, sir sheriff and priest, good-by ! " 
He bent him to his oar, 
And the small boat glided quietly 
From the twain upon the shore. 

Now in the west the heavy clouds 

Scattered and fell asunder, 
While feebler came the rush of rain, 

And fainter growled the thunder. 

And through the broken clouds, the sun 

Looked out serene and warm, 
Painting its holy symbol-light 

Upon the passing storm. 


Oh, beautiful ! that rainbow span, 
O'er dim Crane-neck was bended ; 

One bright foot touched the eastern hills, 
And one with ocean blended. 

By green Pentucket's southern slope 

The small boat glided fast ; 
The watchers of the Block-house saw 

The strangers as they passed. 

That night a stalwart garrison 

Sat shaking in their shoes, 
To hear the dip of Indian oars, 

The glide of birch canoes. 

The fisher-wives of Salisbury — 

The men were all away — 
Looked out to see the stranger oar 

Upon their waters play. 

Deer Island's rocks and fir-trees threw 
Their sunset shadows o'er them, 

And Newbury's spire and weathercock 
Peered o'er the pines before them. 

Around the Black Rocks, on their left, 
The marsh lay broad and green ; 

And on their right with dwarf shrubs crowned, 
Plum Island's hills were seen. 


With skilful hand and wary eye 

The harbor-bar was crossed ; 
A plaything of the restless wave, 

The boat on ocean tossed. 

The glory of the sunset heaven 

On land and water lay ; 
On the steep hills of Agawam, 

On cape, and bluff, and bay. 

They passed the gray rocks of Cape Ann, 

And Gloucester's harbor-bar; 
The watch-fire of the garrison 

Shone like a setting star. 

How brightly broke the morning 

On Massachusetts Bay ! 
Blue wave, and bright green island, 

Rejoicing in the day. 

On passed the bark in safety 

Round isle and headland steep ; 
No tempest broke above them, 

No fog-cloud veiled the deep. 

Far round the bleak and stormy Cape 

The venturous Macy passed, 
And on Nantucket's naked isle 

Drew up his boat at last. 


And how, in log-built cabin, 

They braved the rough sea-weather; 

And there, in peace and quietness, 
Went down life's vale together; 

How others drew around them, 
And how their fishing sped, 

Until to every wind of heaven 
Nantucket's sails were spread ; 

How pale Want alternated 
With Plenty's golden smile ; 

Behold, is it not written 
In the annals of the isle ? 

And yet that isle remaineth 

A refuge of the free, 
As when true-hearted Macy 

Beheld it from the sea. 

Free as the winds that winnow 
Her shrubless hills of sand, 

Free as the waves that batter 
Along her yielding land. 

Than hers, at duty's summons, 

No loftier spirit stirs, 
Nor falls o'er human suffering 

A readier tear than hers. 


God bless the sea-beat island ! 

And grant forevermore, 
That charity and freedom dwell 

As now upon her shore ! 


Among the earliest converts to the doctrines 
of Friends in Scotland was Barclay of Ury, an old 
and distinguished soldier, who had fought under 
Gustavus Adolphus, in Germany. As a Quaker, 
he became the object of persecution and abuse at 
the hands of the magistrates and the populace. 
None bore the indignities of the mob with greater 
patience and nobleness of soul than this once proud 
gentleman and soldier. One of his friends, on 
an occasion of uncommon rudeness, lamented that 
he should be treated so harshly in his old age 
who had been so honored before. " I find more 
satisfaction," said Barclay, "as well as honor, in 
being thus insulted for my religious principles, than 
when, a few years ago, it was usual for the ma- 
gistrates, as I passed the city of Aberdeen, to meet 
me on the road and conduct me to public enter- 
tainment in their hall, and then escort me out 
again, to gain my favor." 


UP the streets of Aberdeen, 
By the kirk and college green, 
Rode the Laird of Ury ; 
Close behind him, close beside, 
Foul of mouth and evil-eyed, 
Pressed the mob in fury. 

Flouted him the drunken churl, 
Jeered at him the serving-girl, 

Prompt to please her master ; 
And the begging carlin, late 
Fed and clothed at Ury's gate, 

Cursed him as he passed her. 

Yet, with calm and stately mien, 
Up the streets of Aberdeen 

Came he slowly riding; 
And, to all he saw and heard, 
Answering not with bitter word, 

Turning not for chiding. 

Came a troop with broadswords swinging, 
Bits and bridles sharply ringing, 
Loose and free and froward ; 


Quoth the foremost, " Ride him down ! 
Push him ! prick him ! through the town 
Drive the Quaker coward ! " 

But from out the thickening crowd 
Cried a sudden voice and loud : 

" Barclay ! Ho! a Barclay ! " 
And the old man at his side 
Saw a comrade, battle tried, 

Scarred and sunburned darkly ; 

Who with ready weapon bare, 
Fronting to the troopers there, 

Cried aloud : " God save us, 
Call ye coward him who stood 
Ankle deep in Liitzen's blood, 

With the brave Gustavus ? " 

" Nay, I do not need thy sword, 
Comrade mine," said Ury's lord ; 

" Put it up, I pray thee : 
Passive to His holy will, 
Trust I in my Master still, 

Even though He slay me. 

" Pledges of thy love and faith, 
Proved on many a field of death, 
Not by me are needed." 


Marvelled much that henchman bold, 
That his laird, so stout of old, 
Now so meekly pleaded. 

w Woe 's the day ! " he sadly said, 
With a slowly shaking head, 
And a look of pity ; 
" Ury's honest lord reviled, 
Mock of knave and sport of child, 
In his own good city ! 

" Speak the word, and, master mine, 
As we charged on Tilly's line, 

And his Walloon lancers, 
Smiting through their midst we'll teach 
Civil look and decent speech 

To these boyish prancers ! " 

" Marvel not, mine ancient friend, 
Like beginning, like the end," 
Quoth the Laird of Ury ; 
" Is the sinful servant more 

Than his gracious Lord who bore 
Bonds and stripes in Jewry ? 

" Give me joy that in His name 

I can bear, with patient frame, 

All these vain ones offer ; 


While for them He suffereth long, 
Shall I answer wrong with wrong, 
Scoffing with the scoffer ? 

a Happier I, with loss of all, 
Hunted, outlawed, held in thrall, 

With few friends to greet me, 
Than when reeve and squire were seen, 
Riding out from Aberdeen, 

With bared heads to meet me ; 

"When each goodwife, o'er and o'er, 
Blessed me as I passed her door ; 

And the snooded daughter, 
Through her casement glancing down 
Smiled on him who bore renown 
From red fields of slaughter. 

u Hard to feel the stranger's scoff, 
Hard the old friend's falling off, 

Hard to learn forgiving; 
But the Lord His own rewards, 
And His love with theirs accords, 
Warm and fresh and living. 

" Through this dark and stormy night 
Faith beholds a feeble light 

Up the blackness streaking; 


Knowing God's own time is best, 
In a patient hope I rest 

For the full day-breaking ! " 

So the Laird of Ury said, 
Turning slow his horse's head 

Towards the Tolbooth prison, 
Where, through iron gates, he heard 
Poor disciples of the Word 

Preach of Christ arisen ! 

Not in vain, Confessor old, 
Unto us the tale is told 

Of thy day of trial ; 
Every age on him who strays 
From its broad and beaten ways 

Pours its seven-fold vial. 

Happy he whose inward ear 
Angel comfortings can hear, 

O'er the rabble's laughter ; 
And while Hatred's fagots burn, 
Glimpses through the smoke discern 

Of the good hereafter. 

Knowing this, that never yet 
Share of Truth was vainly set 
In the world's wide fallow ; 


After hands shall sow the seed, 
After hands from hill and mead 
Reap the harvests yellow. 

Thus, with somewhat of the Seer, 
Must the moral pioneer 

From the Future borrow ; 
Clothe the waste with dreams of grain, 
And, on midnight's sky of rain, 

Paint the golden morrow ! 


This ballad, originally written for The Memo- 
rial History of Boston, describes, with pardonable 
poetic license, a memorable incident in the annals 
of the city. The interview between Shattuck 
and the Governor took place, I have since learned, 
in the residence of the latter, and not in the Coun- 
cil Chamber. The publication of the ballad led 
to some discussion as to the historical truthfulness 
of the picture, but I have seen no reason to rub 
out any of the figures or alter the lines and colors. 


UNDER the great hill sloping bare 
To cove and meadow and Common lot, 
In his council chamber and oaken chair, 
Sat the worshipful Governor Endicott. 
A grave, strong man, who knew no peer 
In the pilgrim land, where he ruled in fear 
Of God, not man, and for good or ill 
Held his trust with an iron will. 

He had shorn with his sword the cross from out 

The flag, and cloven the May-pole down, 
Harried the heathen round about, 

And whipped the Quakers from town to town. 
Earnest and honest, a man at need 
To burn like a torch for his own harsh creed, 
He kept with the flaming brand of his zeal 
The gate of the holy common weal. 

His brow was clouded, his eye was stern, 
With a look of mingled sorrow and wrath ; 

" Woe 's me ! " he murmured : " at every turn 
The pestilent Quakers are in my path ! 


Some we have scourged, and banished some, 
Some hanged, more doomed, and still they come, 
Fast as the tide of yon bay sets in, 
Sowing their heresy's seed of sin. 

" Did we count on this ? Did we leave behind 

The graves of our kin, the comfort and ease 
Of our English hearths and homes, to find 

Troublers of Israel such as these ? 
Shall I spare ? Shall I pity them ? God forbid I 
I will do as the prophet to Agag did : 
They come to poison the wells of the Word, 
I will hew them in pieces before the Lord ! " 

The door swung open, and Rawson the clerk 

Entered, and whispered under breath, 
u There waits below for the hangman's work 

A fellow banished on pain of death — 
Shattuck of Salem, unhealed of the whip, 
Brought over in Master Goldsmith's ship 
At anchor here in a Christian port, 
With freight of the devil and all his sort ! " 

Twice and thrice on the chamber floor 

Striding fiercely from wall to wall, 
" The Lord do so to me and more," 

The Governor cried, " if I hang not all ! 
Bring hither the Quaker." Calm, sedate, 


With the look of a man at ease with fate, 

Into that presence grim and dread 

Came Samuel Shattuck, with hat on head. 

" Off with the knave's hat ! " An angry hand 

Smote down the offence ; but the wearer said, 
With a quiet smile, " By the king's command 
I bear his message and stand in his stead." 
In the Governor's hand a missive he laid 
With the royal arms on its seal displayed, 
And the proud man spake as he gazed thereat, 
Uncovering, " Give Mr. Shattuck his hat." 

He turned to the Quaker, bowing low, — 

"The king commandeth your friends' release; 

Doubt not he shall be obeyed, although 
To his subjects' sorrow and sin's increase. 

What he here enjoineth, John Endicott, 

His loyal servant, questioneth not. 

You are free ! God grant the spirit you own 

May take you from us to parts unknown." 

So the door of the jail was open cast, 
And, like Daniel, out of the lion's den 

Tender youth and girlhood passed, 

With age-bowed women and gray-locked men. 

And the voice of one appointed to die 

Was lifted in praise and thanks on high, 


And the little maid from New Netherlands 
Kissed, in her joy, the doomed man's hands. 

And one, whose call was to minister 

To the souls in prison, beside him went, 
An ancient woman, bearing with her 

The linen shroud for his burial meant. 
For she, not counting her own life dear, 
In the strength of a love that cast out fear, 
Had watched and served where her brethren died, 
Like those who waited the cross beside. 

One moment they paused on their way to look 
On the martyr graves by the Common side, 
And much scourged Wharton of Salem took 

His burden of prophecy up and cried : 
" Rest, souls of the valiant ! Not in vain 
Have ye borne the Master's cross of pain ; 
Ye have fought the fight, ye are victors crowned, 
With a fourfold chain ye have Satan bound ! " 

The autumn haze lay soft and still 

On wood and meadow and upland farms ; 

On the brow of Snow Hill the great windmill 
Slowly and lazily swung its arms ; 

Broad in the sunshine stretched away, 

With its capes and islands, the turquoise bay ; 

And over water and dusk of pines 

Blue hills lifted their faint outlines. 


The topaz leaves of the walnut glowed, 
The sumach added its crimson fleck, 

And double in air and water showed 
The tinted maples along the Neck ; 

Through frost flower clusters of pale star-mist, 

And gentian fringes of amethyst, 

And royal plumes of golden-rod, 

The grazing cattle on Centry trod. 

But as they who see not, the Quakers saw 
The world about them ; they only thought 

With deep thanksgiving and pious awe 

On the great deliverance God had wrought. 

Through lane and alley the gazing town 

Noisily followed them up and down ; 

Some with scoffing and brutal jeer, 

Some with pity and words of cheer. 

One brave voice rose above the din. 

Upsall, gray with his length of days, 
Cried from the door of his Red Lion Inn : 

" Men of Boston, give God the praise ! 
No more shall innocent blood call down 
The bolts of wrath on your guilty town. 
The freedom of worship, dear to you, 
Is dear to all, and to all is due. 

" I see the vision of days to come, 
When your beautiful City of the Bay 


Shall be Christian liberty's chosen home, 

And none shall his neighbor's rights gainsay. 
The varying notes of worship shall blend 
And as one great prayer to God ascend, 
And hands of mutual charity raise 
Walls of salvation and gates of praise." 

So passed the Quakers through Boston town, 
Whose painful ministers sighed to see 

The walls of their sheep-fold falling down, 
And wolves of heresy prowling free. 

But the years went on, and brought no wrong ; 

With milder counsels the State grew strong, 

As outward Letter and inward Light 

Kept the balance of truth aright. 

The Puritan spirit, perishing not, 

To Concord's yeomen the signal sent, 
And spake in the voice of the cannon-shot 
That severed the chains of a continent. 
With its gentler mission of peace and good-will 
The thought of the Quaker is living still, 
And the freedom of soul he prophesied 
Is gospel and law where the martyrs died. 


The following is a copy of the warrant issued 
by Major Waldron, of Dover, in 1662. The 
Quakers, as was their wont, prophesied against 
him, and saw, as they supposed, the fulfilment of 
their prophecy when, many years after, he was 
killed by the Indians. 

To the constables of Dover, Hampton, Salisbury, Neivbury, 
Roivley, Ipswich, Wenham, Lynn, Boston, Roxbury, Ded- 
ham, and until these vagabond Quakers are carried out of 
this jurisdiction. 

You, and every one of you, are required, in the King's 
Majesty's name, to take these vagabond Quakers, Anne 
Colman, Mary Tomkins, and Alice Ambrose, and make 
them fast to the cart's tail and driving the cart through 
your several towns, to whip them upon their naked backs 
not exceeding ten stripes apiece on each of them, in each 
town 5 and so to convey them from constable to constable 
till they are out of this jurisdiction, as you will answer it at 
your peril j and this shall be your warrant. 

Richard Waldron. 
Dated at Dover, December 22, 1662. 

This warrant was executed only in Dover and 
Hampton. At Salisbury the constable refused to 
obey it. He was sustained by the town's peo- 
ple, who were under the influence of Major 
Robert Pike, the leading man in the lower val- 
ley of the Merrimac, who stood far in advance 
of his time, as an advocate of religious freedom 
and an opponent of ecclesiastical authority. He 
had the moral courage to address an able and 
manly letter to the court at Salem, remonstrating 
against the witchcraft trials. 


THE tossing spray of Cocheco's fall 
Hardened to ice on its rocky wall, 
As through Dover town in the chill, gray dawn, 
Three women passed, at the cart-tail drawn ! 

Bared to the waist, for the north wind's grip 
And keener sting of the constable's whip, 
The blood that followed each hissing blow 
Froze as it sprinkled the winter snow. 

Priest and ruler, boy and maid 
Followed the dismal cavalcade ; 
And from door and window, open thrown, 
Looked and wondered gaffer and crone. 

"God is our witness," the victims cried, 
"We suffer for Him who for all men died ; 
The wrong ye do has been done before : 
We bear the stripes that the Master bore ! 

" And thou, O Richard Waldron, for whom 
We hear the feet of a coming doom, 


On thy cruel heart and thy hand of wrong 
Vengeance is sure, though it tarry long. 

" In the light of the Lord, a flame we see 
Climb and kindle a proud roof-tree ; 
And beneath it an old man lying dead, 
With stains of blood on his hoary head." 

u Smite, Goodman Hate-Evil ! — harder still ! " 
The magistrate cried, " lay on with a will ! 
Drive out of their bodies the Father of Lies, 
Who through them preaches and prophesies ! " 

So into the forest they held their way, 
By winding river and frost-rimmed bay, 
Over wind-swept hills that felt the beat 
Of the winter sea at their icy feet. 

The Indian hunter, searching his traps, 
Peered stealthily through the forest gaps ; 
And the outlying settler shook his head, — 
"They 're witches going to jail," he said. 

At last a meeting-house came in view ; 
A blast on his horn the constable blew ; 
And the boys of Hampton cried up and down 
"The Quakers have come!" to the wondering 

Into the forest they held their way 


From barn and woodpile the goodman came ; 
The goodwife quitted her quilting frame, 
With her child at her breast ; and, hobbling slow, 
The grandam followed to see the show. 

Once more the torturing whip was swung, 
Once more keen lashes the bare flesh stung. 
" Oh, spare ! they are bleeding ! " a little maid cried, 
And covered her face the sight to hide. 

A murmur ran round the crowd : " Good folks," 
Quoth the constable, busy counting the strokes, 
u No pity to wretches like these is due, 
They have beaten the gospel black and blue ! " 

Then a pallid woman, in wild-eyed fear, 
With her wooden noggin of milk drew near. 
" Drink, poor hearts ! " a rude hand smote 
Her draught away from a parching throat. 

" Take heed," one whispered, " they '11 take your 

For fines, as they took your horse and plough, 
And the bed from under you." " Even so," 
She said ; " they are cruel as death, I know." 

Then on they passed, in the waning day, 
Through Seabrook woods, a weariful way; 


By great salt meadows and sand-hills bare, 
And glimpses of blue sea here and there. 

By the meeting-house in Salisbury town 
The sufferers stood, in the red sundown, 
Bare for the lash ! O pitying Night, 
Drop swift thy curtain and hide the sight ! 

With shame in his eye and wrath on his lip 
The Salisbury constable dropped his whip. 
" This warrant means murder foul and red ; 
Cursed is he who serves it," he said. 

" Show me the order, and meanwhile strike 
A blow at your peril ! " said Justice Pike. 
Of all the rulers the land possessed, 
Wisest and boldest was he and best. 

He scoffed at witchcraft ; the priest he met 
As man meets man ; his feet he set 
Beyond his dark age, standing upright, 
Soul-free, with his face to the morning light. 

He read the warrant: "These convey 
From our precincts ; at every town on the way 
Give each ten lashes" " God judge the brute ! 
I tread his order under my foot ! 


"Cut loose these poor ones and let them go; 
Come what will of it, all men shall know 
No warrant is good, though backed by the Crown, 
For whipping women in Salisbury town ! " 

The hearts of the villagers, half released 
From creed of terror and rule of priest, 
By a primal instinct owned the right 
Of human pity in law's despite. 

For ruth and chivalry only slept, 
His Saxon manhood the yeoman kept ; 
Quicker or slower, the same blood ran 
In the Cavalier and the Puritan. 

The Quakers sank on their knees in praise 
And thanks. A last, low sunset blaze 
Flashed out from under a cloud, and shed 
A golden glory on each bowed head. 

The tale is one of an evil time, 

When souls were fettered and thought was crjme, 

And heresy's whisper above its breath 

Meant shameful scourging and bonds and death ! 

What marvel, that hunted and sorely tried, 
Even woman rebuked and prophesied, 


And soft words rarely answered back 
The grim persuasion of whip and rack ! 

If her cry from the whipping-post and jail 
Pierced sharp as the Kenite's driven nail, 
O woman, at ease in these happier days, 
Forbear to judge of thy sister's ways ! 

How much thy beautiful life may owe 
To her faith and courage thou canst not know, 
Nor how from the paths of thy calm retreat 
She smoothed the thorns with her bleeding feet.